


go back to the old

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Manchester United
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: Six phonecalls between the Class of '92





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



> Dearest Rach! I want to wish you a happy birthday and I really hope it's a good one, because I love you a lot and you deserve the best things in life. I absolutely admire your talent in graphic design and in writing, though not your taste in football clubs. I hope you like this, and I hope you meet Gary Neville again, many many times.

It’s not that David forgets, it’s just that he gets a little preoccupied.

 

Madrid takes a lot out of him, a lot from him, and the days blur into each other. Iker smiles at him from across the pitch and David smiles back, a little envious of the way he wears the pressure, not like a shackle, but like a crown.

 

It barely ever rains in Madrid, or at least it seems like to David, who’s used to London and Manchester and everything that comes between. When it does rain, his teammates make fun of him for how his smile seems to grow bigger the more the mud squelches underfoot.

 

It’s been awhile since he’s picked up the phone and called.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Gaz? It’s me.”

 

“Oh. Oh! Hey, it’s good to hear from you. I feel like it’s been ages. But you’ve been tearing it up over in La Liga, haven’t you? I’ve been watching.”

 

David ducks his head and changes the subject, and the guilt in his stomach gnaws. He hasn’t been watching any of Gary’s games, any of United’s games, at all.

  


*

  


Gary doesn’t watch Everton games that first season after Phil leaves.

 

He watches the highlights, but barely, prefers to read about them in the papers instead, because the stark black text makes it easier to imagine familiar syllables as something foreign, like how if you sign your name over and over it starts feeling like it doesn’t belong to you anymore.

 

It’s not easy to pretend that the blue 18 streaking across the field is the enemy, and not someone whose nose he used to wipe, someone who used to crawl into his bed when they had a nightmare, but Gary makes an admirable effort of it.

 

“Did you see the game last night?”

 

Gary has to get over his hang-ups eventually. Phil always calls, after, and expects them to work through their respective match-ups, systematic and uncompromising. Gary doesn’t know if Phil learned it from him, or if it was the other way around, but they’ve always done it.

 

“You should have taken that second scoring chance, Carragher wouldn’t have been able to catch you in time.”

 

“I had a hattrick, Gaz.”

 

“Always room for improvement.”

  


*

  


Phil has never been able to talk to Paul without a persistent swell of feeling rising behind his rib cage. When he was younger he thought it was admiration, and by the time he realized otherwise it felt too late, too embarrassing, to do anything about it. So he got used to it, used to tamping it down into nothing.

 

Still, if they go long periods without speaking, without seeing each other, sometimes Phil forgets to put up his defenses in time, and the sound of Paul, sleepy and petulant, makes him sit down hard, and his jaw clenching over the words that want to slip out instead of hello.

 

“What do you want, Phil?”

 

“Can’t I just call you to see how you are?”

 

“...I guess you’re the only one that does.”

 

“So how are you?”

 

“Good. Can I got back to sleep now?”

 

“Promise to call me later.”

 

“I promise.”

 

Paul doesn’t even bother to shut off the call. Phil listens to him breathe for a moment, remembering the same cadence from all the rooms across Europe they shared, and then he puts the phone down and wills his heartbeat back to normal.

  


*

 

Paul doesn’t know why Butty is the first one he calls, after. It could be anyone else - Wayne, Phil, Giggsy, even Gary, who’s been blowing up his phone with notifications. But he calls Nicky instead.

 

“So, coming out of retirement then?”

 

“Huh. Yeah. I guess so.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Nicky knows how to wait him out, always has. Paul doesn’t know if patience is a goalkeeper trait, or if Nicky just picked it to be extra annoying, but it’s always worked on him.

 

“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

 

“And you’re asking me?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

He’s calling because Nicky has always told him the truth (except for when he hasn’t), and he’s never sugarcoated things to spare Paul’s feelings.

 

“I think you do. I think you want me to tell you that it isn’t. That whipping your body into shape again, trying for one last huzzah isn’t going to be worth it.”

 

“So is it?”

 

“Yeah. Absolutely. Now call Gary back, I think he’s working his way to an aneurysm.”

  


*

  


“So, Giggsy, I thought that the reason you never tell me about the girls you sleep with is just that you’re a bit shy. I never realized that it was because you were sleeping with half the population of the Greater Manchester area.”

 

“Butty, I really don’t need this right now.”

 

“I’m insulted, frankly. I know I’ve never been invited to one of your ‘bedazzled vajazzled decadent orgies’.”

 

“Are you quoting the Daily Mail article?”

 

“Of course. I’m highlighting my favorite bits. I’ll send them to you later. Hey, did you really make this girl wear a full United kit while you were going at it?”

 

“Butty.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. If you need a break, come on over and I’ll give you a handy on the front porch, I bet that’ll distract them.”

  


*

  


They make him wait in the dressing room, while everyone up on the field lines up in his honor. Ryan feels like he can hear stomping feet above him, his name filling the cracks in the Old Trafford cement, echoing across the empty hallways.

 

The armband is snug against his arm, his shoelaces expertly knotted and his shin guards lined up just right.

 

It doesn’t seem like the last time. Instead, it feels like every other time he’s suited up for almost four decades. Like he’ll go out there and do his job, and do it better than anyone else

could. There’s reassurance in that, one he can never have anywhere else. He thinks maybe that’s the part that scares him the most.

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Giggs? A phone call for you,” one of the marketing people holds out a phone to him, and she must read something of the confusion on his face because she adds: “You’re going to want to take it.”

 

So he does.

 

“Hello, lad,” and just like that, Ryan goes to match ready in an instant, adrenaline flooding his senses, straightening to his full height. He’s been conditioned to respond like that for what feels like almost as long as he’s played football.

 

“Hello, sir. What can I do for you?”

 

“I wanted to congratulate you, on a long and illustrious playing career. It’s been an honor to be your manager and a pleasure to watch you play.”

 

“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

 

“You probably could have, but I’ll gladly take the credit.” Fergie chuckles, before suddenly sobering up. “There’s one other thing.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“There’s no one standing on the sidelines tapping their watch for you. You go out and you play today, and look up to the stands of Old Trafford and you remember that this isn’t your end. It’s only just your beginning.”

 

And it strange, but when Ryan walks onto that field it does feel like the first time. There’s Scholesy, looking a little bored, laying a restraining hand on Phil’s back as to stop him from vibrating out of his skin, and Gaz and Becks, unconsciously leaning into each other’s space. Butty makes a jerking off motion where the cameras won’t see and it almost sets him off.

 

He catches sight of Fergie on the sidelines, beaming proudly. For once, he isn’t wearing a watch. When they start singing his song in the stands, it feels like he’s hearing it for the first time ever.

 

The whistle blows, and they’re off.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I didn't even look up Giggsy's last game, I just made hella shit up, I'm sorry.


End file.
